The Fourth of July! Paris! And our General, the idol of the hour! I tell you it thrilled me clear down to my heels! We navy men were let through the crowd and we were able to view the ceremony at close range. I have never heard such cheering in my life! It was Paris' first opportunity to hear our General speak, and he spoke so simply--so quietly--in the face of that great ovation that there was not one among us who could doubt his ability to lead our men as they had never before been led. There were to be fireworks that night in honor of our presence--concerts and speeches and dancing. Oh, France was showing us that she was glad we had come, but how glad we were to be there she can never guess! I drifted idly with the crowd. I wandered down to the big station--the _Gare de Lyons_. What took me there I scarcely know. Fate, I suppose, because there were a thousand and one places I might have gone instead. The station was full of a bustling mob--uniforms--uniforms everywhere. A train load of soldiers had just arrived on leave from the Front. That was a sight for you, as their eager eyes lighted on some loved one's face! I tell you, it kept your heart jumping in your throat to see them. Some of them were so white and worn and haggard. Most of them bronzed and wiry, a bit grimy from the long train trip, with uniforms faded and sometimes torn. But weariness and dirt and tears could not hide the spirit that shone in their eyes as they clasped their wife and little ones to them. A young artillery officer came toward me. He was a handsome man with a bit of a swagger in spite of his limp. I saw his eyes roving the crowd restlessly in search of someone. Suddenly he caught sight of me. "Ah! An American! What joy! _Vive L'Amerique!_" he shouted. I thanked him. I told him my name and he told me his. It was Louis du Frere, and he lived at Faubourg St. Germain. He was just back from the trenches on a precious leave of seven days. Wounded? He shrugged. But, yes, fifteen times so far, and what of that? I stared at him. Wounded fifteen times and yet eager to go back! Spirit of France, you are indomitable! He excused himself as he scanned the crowd. His sister was to meet him. She was there somewhere. She never failed him. Ah, yes! He had found her. . . . I turned to see a little black-clad figure rush into his arms and cling to him as though she could never let him go. He spoke to her gently. "Angele," he said, "this gentleman is a great officer of the American navy. Tell him how glad you are to welcome him to France." At that she whirled and since then I have never been able to see a red poppy without thinking of her. I don't remember what I said in my very limited French, but her brother broke in to explain that she had lost her young husband at the battle of the Marne and he ended up by announcing to her that I was going to spend the rest of my liberty as their guest.